


Who You Are

by missbluebonnet



Series: The Lovely Moons [4]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blind Character, Bonding, F/M, Family Bonding, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23211850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbluebonnet/pseuds/missbluebonnet
Summary: Just when things begin to settle, a dogfight between the Mandalorian and another bounty hunter leaves you injured, stranded on Tatooine, and in need of money.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Lovely Moons [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638400
Comments: 62
Kudos: 569





	1. Who You Are

Ever since your argument on Quanera, you and the Mandalorian fall into a comfortable, if not an easy rhythm.

It goes something like this.

In the mornings, you take the baby outside and let him run through the grass, which is almost too tall for him to see over. He often chases insects and climbs on top of small rocks. One afternoon, just before it started to rain, he picks every blue flower he can find, and when you both return to the Razor Crest as the heavens open up, he waddles up to the Mandalorian to present the drooping bouquet. 

The bounty hunter kneels on the floor of the hull, using a soldering iron to fix the wiring of one of the ship’s consoles, but he sets it carefully aside to take the wilting flowers from the child. “Thank you,” he whispers, resting his gloved hand on the baby’s head with gentle affection. You see, later that evening before you retire to bed, the pale blue flowers resting in a clay cup of water on the control panel of the cockpit.

After a little exercise, you feed the baby mashed fruit, and he tends to try to feed his stuffed bantha toy some, too. You have already washed it more times than you thought possible, sure it will fall apart any day, now. 

Then, in the afternoons as the child sleeps, you find things to keep yourself occupied. One day, you walk up behind the Mandalorian while he cleans one of his many weapons. The noises of scrubbing and tinkering draw you over, but you cannot tell what weapon he’s disassembled. The small table is absolutely littered with different parts, gears, and oiled cloths. It would look the same to you whether you were blind or not. But it’s the bit of light shining through the holes of his cloak that cause you to frown. 

“This isn’t the one you lent me,” you say, picking up the hem. You feel with your fingers the holes and tatters. One portion of fabric is nearly worn away entirely.

He turns his helmet towards you, pausing his ministrations of scrubbing off the carbon of the barrel of a gun. “No.”

“Why don’t you wear the other?”

There is a heavy pause where he grows very still, and you have the distinct impression he isn’t actually looking at you.

“Because you’re wearing it.”

A blush blooms in both your cheeks, and you flex your fingers over the fabric that you still hold between your hands. You have taken to wearing the cloak whenever you go outside, since Quanera’s air is still cooler than what you were accustomed to. It does not seem to phase the Mandalorian at all, and he hasn’t asked for his cloak back. You use it as a lap blanket when you join him in the cockpit, either perched in the pilot’s chair to practice your landing and take-off, or nodding off in the co-pilot’s seat. You prefer it to the hull, since there’s more light, and the three of you are together.

“That’s ridiculous,” you finally insist, ignoring how weak your voice sounds. With a frown, you step closer behind him, and you rest both hands on his pauldrons. “Here, take it off.”

Immediately, he grows so tense you can taste it in the air. You tilt your head, trying to gauge what the problem is. “I have a needle and thread,” you say after a moment, fingering the fabric where his shoulder and neck meet. “I may be blind, but I can sew a hole or two.”

You see the moment his shoulders drop by inches, and for a moment, he continues to remain still. You don’t think he is actually going to acquiesce from how long he hesitates, but then he turns back to the gun he is cleaning and mutters, “Suit yourself.”

With a short sigh, you begin removing the pauldrons that secure the cloak beneath, your fingers working beneath the beskar to locate the leather straps that keep them secure. The armor itself draws your attention as you lift one shoulder guard between your hands, and you form an idea. He appears distracted enough, so you remove the other before taking the cloak and both pieces of beskar with you.

The Mandalorian finds you that evening sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, one leg crossed over the other as you feel with your fingers every stitch you made, careful not to prick yourself and bleed all over it. In the pilot’s chair, his pauldrons shone like beacons, freshly polished and his thicker cloak you’d been borrowing folded nicely underneath.

“I gave this one to you,” he had said, sounding tired and petulant. His voice was thick with another emotion you can’t put your finger on, and you lift your chin up and set your sewing in your lap, the well-worn cloak resembling a black banner against your legs. 

“And now I’m giving it back. It’s terribly heavy,” you insist with a wave of your hand, looking back down at the seams you’ve created on the thinner one you were mending.

“Then-then I’ll get you another one,” the Mandalorian huffs, sounding endearingly irritated. He begins to put the armor back on, thorough and precise with every movement. “That thing isn’t worth the thread you’re using on it.”

“You were wearing it.” It’s an accusation, and you mean it that way. His armor is beautiful, but what should keep him warm is so thin even you can see through it. “Besides, I don’t intend to wear it.”

And you don’t. What you do is reline the child’s cradle, using the older, thinner blankets as padding and attaching the newly mended cloak on top. You notice the little one burrow under the blankets more than once, and one evening when you pick him up, his ears feel near to freezing off. This project takes you several days to complete, your penchant for a well-done job motivating you to perfect the cushion of the cradle and securing the lining in neat, hemmed rows.

When the baby finally crawls in, he practically bounces from the soft stuffing, cooing in wonder. You cannot keep from beaming with pride at your work, your fingers a bit more stiff and sore than before, but it is worth it to see the child fall asleep so quickly. You wonder if he is comforted by the scent of his father.

The Mandalorian says nothing of it. He finds some work collecting a renegade mechanic who had stolen a ship from Cantonica, and when he returns-wearing the cloak you’d forced back onto him-he seems too tired to even hold a conversation. You manage to take off without needing his supervision, and you assure him you would let him know if you needed help.

Returning to your own bunk that night, you find bolts of fabric that have your mouth falling open. The different textures feel as silky as water against your fingers, softer than anything you’ve ever worn before, in shades of the sea. Blues, greens, greys, darker but rich in a quality you could never afford. Your eyes sting at the kind gesture, unsure what to make of such a gift. 

You stay up that night until the sun appears on the horizon, sewing and hemming until your fingers are too raw to even pick the child up, but you know the Mandalorian sees the midnight blue dress that replaces the old threadbare clothing you wore before. He even helps secure the cloak you’ve sewn for yourself, his leather gloves whispering over the pewter material when he fastens it at your shoulders before going out with the child.

That was this morning, before you took off. Now, you’ve set course to a planet called Nevarro, where the Mandalorian says he needs to speak with a business associate from the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. You have plenty of curiosity for the venture, but now you are distracted.

There are few sounds in the world that make you as happy as listening to the child laugh. The burbling squeal, thick with joy, makes your face crease with a helpless grin as you lounge in the pilot’s seat in the Razor Crest’s cockpit. The ship is currently cruising on autopilot, and you are facing the co-pilot seats where the child is propped up in his cradle in one, flailing his arms and hiccupping with laughter as the Mandalorian sits across from him, attempting to speak sternly in Mando’a.

“ _Ori’skraan_ ,” the Mandalorian is saying, holding out a small bite of a herb encrusted bread to the child. When the child simply giggles so hard his ears fluttered up, you can’t keep from laughing either, covering your mouth. The Mandalorian chokes on his own chuckle, dropping his helmet forward and shaking his head side to side. “ _Epar, verd’ika!_ ” he insists, wagging the bit of food at the small green creature.

The baby falls back into his cradle, giggling and kicking his little feet in joy at the Mandalorian’s fruitless language lesson, and you throw your own head back with laughter.

“He’ll starve at this rate,” the bounty hunter snorts, dropping the small slice of bread onto the plate he’d brought for the child.

“Oh, I doubt that,” you snicker, missing the way the gleaming helmet with it’s sharpened visor tilts towards you. “And I have a feeling that he’s taking in every single thing you’re saying. One day he’ll just simply start speaking full sentences.” 

The Mandalorian glances from you to the child, then back again, radiating skepticism. The baby still wobbles from his laughter, toddling back upwards to grin with all his teeth. When the bounty hunter looks down at him, the child tilts his head as if daring the armored warrior to continue. 

“ _Duraani, burc’ya?_ ” 

Immediately, the child squeals laughing, and you have the rare pleasure of listening to a true belly laugh modulate from the Mandalorian’s helmet, his armor nearly shaking with laughter. He leans forward in the co-pilot’s seat and lifts the baby out of the makeshift cradle, setting him in his lap. Your eyes slip closed as you savor the sweet sounds of receding laughter echoing off the metal walls of the ship, a small smile on your face.

When the Mandalorian speaks again, his voice is soft, almost too quiet for even the modulator to pick up. “ _Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad_ ,” he murmurs to the child, and you open your eyes in time to see him do something you find incredibly strange. He bows his head and taps the smooth beskar crown of his helmet to the child’s little wrinkled forehead. The tiny three fingered hands reach up to pat just beneath the visor, and the baby coos in response.

It is one of the most tender sights you’ve ever witnessed, and you’re compelled to turn your eyes away. 

“ _Mesh’la,_ ” whispers the Mandalorian, and when you turn back, you find that both the bounty hunter and the child are gazing at you. The child coos in his arms, looking up at the armored guardian before blinking back at you. If you didn’t know better, he seemed to understand.

“What are you telling him?” you ask with a soft smile, raising your eyebrows when the beskar helmet looks away from you. Amused suspicion lingers in your voice, not trusting the conspiratorial tone of the hunter or the curious ear perk of the little one he holds.

“I am telling him who you are.”

The quiet, reverent way he says the simple words stirs something in your heart, and your mouth goes dry as bones. You certainly do not speak Mando’a, which he’s certainly exploiting in the moment, but you suddenly desire fluency from the gentle, beautiful language from the way he speaks it alone.

And then, everything falls apart.

A thundering explosion throws everyone and everything in the cockpit forward, the Razor Crest lurching from the hit of enemy fire. You’re thrown to the side right out of the chair and land half sprawled across the control panel. A sudden impact to your side from a gear shift radiates pain all the way from your hip to your shoulder, and you can’t muffle the painful cry that bursts from your mouth.

The Mandalorian hits the wall of the cockpit, turning his body just in time so he absorbs the fall and the child in his arms doesn’t smash into the metal siding. You shove yourself up, scrabbling for the controls, and you pull the ship up, every instruction and piece of advice the Mandalorian had instilled in you falling into place. The whole right side of your body is burning with discomfort, and when the bounty hunter grabs your shoulders and pulls you out of the seat, you can’t help the dry sob that tumbles from your throat. 

“Move!” 

You change places, stumbling quickly to the co-pilot’s chair and struggle with the buckles. They click in place not a moment too soon, because all of the sudden the ship is crashing into a high speed, and you shut your eyes from dizziness.

A voice breaks the silence over the communications link. “Gotcha, Mando!”

The vocoder is all static when the Mandalorian growls with annoyance, gloved hands conducting a symphony over the controls to push the Razor Crest into flying maneuvers that leave your stomach somewhere down in the hull of the ship. With the thrusters fully engaged, the ship is flying faster than you’ve ever experienced, and it seems the child feels the same terrifying tension you do.

You reach over as best you can, lifting him from his cradle and wrapping your arms around him, focusing on how he nuzzles beneath your neck and coos at the attention rather than the pain radiating in your side.

“Hand over the child, Mando,” a voice hums over the communications link, and you realize belatedly what’s actually happening. He had told you the Empire was after the little one, that there was danger hanging over his head wherever he went. Your heart begins to pound in your breast, and you know the child can feel it, because he whimpers and clutches at your clothing. 

Instinctively, you hold the baby closer to your body, feeling the Razor Crest dip before tilting back and up to gain speed. Another hit on the back of the ship causes it to lurch forward, and you and the child would’ve gone careening into the floor had you not been buckled in. 

“I might let you live,” comes the voice again, half a threat and half a taunt.

More impact from enemy fire sends the ship shuddering, and alarms begin to go off, blaring in the cockpit. Something off to the left side of the ship implodes, and the crackling of fire on metal resounds in the walls. The baby whimpers and begins to fuss against you, and you’re only dimly aware that the Mandalorian responds to the threat by flipping several switches all the while ignoring the blaring alarms.

“Hold on.”

You slip your arms tighter around the baby, pressing your face between his ears, and you feel the ship turn quickly in a move that dodges excess fire. The red glow of the alarms distorts the cockpit, and all you can see is the gleam of the beskar helmet as he leans forward over the controls. It occurs to you in that moment that there is a certain thrill in something like this, a horrifying adrenaline rush that dangles you between safety and risk. 

“Come on,” the Mandalorian mutters, angling the ship back and forth to avoid the shots.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold,” the pilot says over the radio, and those words sink into your stomach like a stone.

You don’t have time to consider the ramifications of the threat because the Mandalorian suddenly grabs the controls and rips them back, causing the ship to thrust backward in space. The starfighter flies past, directly overhead, and you suck in a breath when the ship clips one of the Razor Crest’s engines. 

“That’s my line.” 

The starfighter is in view one moment, and the next it’s a brilliant shower of sparkling vermillion clouds. The communications link dies, and the engines are shut off, allowing the Razor Crest to list in space silently.

For a long, horrible moment, the alarms going off feel like they’ll never stop, and you’re afraid you’ve forgotten how to breathe in the midst of the chaos. The Mandalorian tests a few gauges, flicking a switch or two before saying, “Losing fuel.”

With a few more quiet clicks and punches, the alarms are swallowed by the quiet and darkness of the engines powering down. The child giggles in the dark, his ears perking up and down curiously, and you’re glad he’s having fun, at least. When the Mandalorian turns in the pilot’s chair, he seems to remember the both of you and leans forward, putting his gloved hand on the baby’s head. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes are closed, head bowed to try and breathe. The panic from such jeopardy would have been one thing to deal with, but the hot pain spreading up your side from landing on the control panel is becoming harder to ignore. You bite your lip and jerk your head side to side, and there’s a shift of fabric in the darkness, followed by a quiet clink of metal on metal when the Mandalorian kneels in front of you. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I think I hurt myself when...earlier,” you frowned, trying to remember how it even happened. Everything was a blur, both mentally and physically, and it seemed like years ago now when the two of you were laughing at the child’s giggle fit. You shifted and swallowed a painful groan building in your throat. It came out as a muffled noise. “It’s hard to breathe.” 

Without missing a beat, the bounty hunter takes the child from your arms and places him in the cradle in the opposite co-pilot’s chair. Turning back to you, he places a hand on your shoulder, and you suppose he must see how you’re favoring one side, holding your right arm across your abdomen. 

His hand gently squeezes your shoulder, and he rumbles from behind the helmet before nodding. 

He’s got a stubborn urgency about him now, leaning over you and pressing several controls. A switch clicks, and the engines power back up. He retakes his seat in the pilot’s chair, and you let out a shaky breath, the pain growing from your side like a hug-around your back and up to your chest. You listen to the beeps of the console and the radio static that hums back to life.

“This is Mos Eisley Tower. We are tracking you. Head for bay three-five, over.”

“Copy that. Locked in for three-five.” 

You lean your head back against the headrest and try to ignore your heart palpitations when the engines sputter and pop, closing your eyes. When the Razor Crest lands, you are surprised at how gentle of a landing it is considering all the damage it’s taken. When you open your eyes again, it’s just as the Mandalorian is turning in his seat to look at you, and you wonder what he must see. You certainly don’t feel your best, and you think you must look it because he murmurs, “Stay here.”

The child fell asleep once the ship entered the landing program, and the bounty hunter gathers him in a blanket before disappearing down the ladder and into the hull. When he returns, you feel your throat begin to tighten at the worry of being able to breathe. It’s hurting worse now, and the pain is sharper. He says your name, but when you don’t respond, his hands are unbuckling you from the seat. Gloved fingers ghost over your temple, and your eyes lift open.

“Can you walk?”

You consider it, and the very idea of anyone lifting you up makes your entire body viscerally react with dread. You nod but add, “I need help standing-and going down the ladder.”

He nods and gives you his hand, his other resting behind your shoulder. You bite your lip on a noise building from your chest, feeling weak and useless. Surely he’s nearly come close to dying, and here you are, hardly unable to stand all because you fell. Hot tears of shame prick your eyes, and you hold onto his offered hand as he helps you down the ladder. When you start to walk the length of the hull, your head drops to the side until it’s propped up against his shoulder. His arm naturally curves around your back, but you hiss when he touches your side.

You adjust his fingers and shift them up beneath your arm, muttering a quiet thanks as he helps you walk down the ramp.

The sun is hot and the air is dry on Tatooine, and you shut your eyes against the bright light when you both step out from the shadow of the Razor Crest. So when three pit droids begin chittering and ambling toward the ship, you nearly jump out of your skin when the Mandalorian unholsters his blaster pistol and shoots with smooth fluency.

“Hey!” a shriek from within the bay makes you wince. “ _Hey!_ ”

“You won’t make friends with warning shots,” you whisper under your breath, leaning into him as he walks with you off the ramp, still tucked under his arm. He ignores you.

“You damage one of my droids, you’ll pay for it!” A woman strides out from the operating booth, and her fiery, direct attitude is a refreshing change from the quiet and stoic atmosphere of the ship. If you had full possession of yourself, you would appreciate it more, you think.

“Just keep them away from my ship,” the Mandalorian warns, adjusting his arm behind you so that you lean more of your weight on him. Though his tone is usually the same reserved, level baritone, you notice his voice takes on a more unflinching edge when he mentions the droids. 

“Yeah? You think that’s a good idea, do ya?” the woman asks, her own unflappable and direct voice a match for the bounty hunter’s. She puts one hand on her utility belt before gesturing with the other. “What’s wrong with her?”

You’ve closed your eyes again, sweat beginning to prickle your brow in the heat, or perhaps it’s from the strain of keeping yourself upright. The beskar helmet tilts down towards you before regarding the mechanic again. With no answer, and you are almost thankful for it, the mechanic gives a short sigh. “Needs a doctor? There’s one down the road.” 

When both of you hesitate-, it’s easier to hear your pained breathing. The woman shifts uncomfortably, glancing between both of you before huffing. “Well why are you just standing here? Get her to the doctor!”

“But the ship-”

“Oh, it’ll be here when you get back,” she says with another huff. “And don’t think I’m not charging you every minute for it!”

The two of you set off down the sand trekked street, and you feel the Mandalorian take a deep breath. “I could carry you, and we would be there faster.” It might have been a complaint, you think, if his voice wasn’t suddenly so tender and quiet.

“If you even try, I think I’ll pass out,” you whisper, unable to fathom your body bending with the pain in your side. Underneath the armor, you wonder if he’s rolling his eyes. Surely he didn’t prepare for this contingency, and you bite your lip on the feeling of guilt remembering the baby is alone on the ship. “If I can get to the medic, you can go back. The child shouldn’t be alone.”

“I can’t just leave you,” the Mandalorian shoots quickly, his tone full of surprise.

“I’ve survived without you this long,” you murmur with a small smile, and he’s quiet at that until you reach the medical service center. The name itself is a bit too grand for the small dusty building with sand on the floor and aged equipment. You suppose your face must be washed pale from the pain, because there are several on staff who rush forward to help you when the Mandalorian shoulders you through the doors. They all ask questions and begin to escort you to the back, but the bounty hunter speaks up before they get too far.

“Wait.” Everyone freezes, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Standing and breathing are becoming two things you aren’t sure you can handle at the same time, swaying between two physicians who keep you propped up. “Be careful with her. Please.”

You don’t turn your head to look back at him, but you wonder if he remains until you’re out of sight.


	2. He Would Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mandalorian is on a hunt for a bounty, and while you recuperate, you struggle with your protective feelings over him and the child.

When you explain how you came by the pain in your side, the physician helps you out of your dress to examine you. You suck in a breath when her cold fingers tap along your back and up to your ribs, feeling the tender skin where bruises have started forming. She deduces quickly, trauma to the area of your back having caused significant nerve pain. All you remember is watching the Mandalorian with his son, so gentle and attentive that you forgot yourself. You’d been content in the warmth of their laughter, softened by the affection, and then harsh red lights and blaring alarms and-

“Spend time being thrown against walls?” the doctor asks, her light and teasing voice bringing you back to the present. You turn your head towards her as she moves your shoulders to the left and right to check your flexibility.

“Well...” you puff, face pinched with pain, considering the story that got you into this.

Shaking her head, she sets to work and makes a quick job out of you, narrating every step to keep you aware of what’s going on. “I’m using a micro-sonic vibration injector to administer an analgesic. The pain you’re feeling should disappear in a minute or so.” 

You don’t even feel the injection, which she administers into the fleshy curve of your waist before you can question her about it. She applies a healing sheath around your abdomen after that, and she instructs you not to remove it for a full twenty-four hours. You use your fingers to feel the edges where it lays flat, beneath your bust and down your abdomen to create a comfortable seal that still allows you to move. The sweat on your brow is quickly cooling as the discomfort recedes to a dull ache, as if you’d been struck in the side rather than stabbed by the control switch.

“I’m giving you two sterile heating cloths to sleep with. Try to lay as flat as you can so you don’t put pressure unevenly on your back. Make sure you don’t accidentally lay on anything,” she said, placing the packaged cloths in your hands after you pull your dress back up. “Or anyone,” she adds with a smile.

You blush at that, smiling in understanding, and nod.

Stepping behind you, she helps straighten the collar of your dress before saying, “You know, that hunter who brought you in was quite worried about you.”

You shut your eyes in mortification, rubbing between your eyebrows. Maker, what must he think? It’s been so long since you’ve fallen, not since you were younger and at least a foot shorter. You’re so careful now, and your pride is wounded to think of him treating you like glass, skittish and scared. Your fingers tighten around the cloths she’s given you.

“Pestered some of my staff for a while until he finally left. Wouldn’t sit down. It was making people anxious, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Your stomach tightens at her words, and it’s all you can do to meet her face with your own as you turn around. “He has a lot on his mind,” you mutter, thinking of the child sleeping so quietly back aboard the ship. You can’t stand it knowing he’s alone, and the longer you linger, the worse you feel.

The doctor hums, and you think she must be smiling when she says, “Seems to me you were the only thing on his mind.” 

Her words echo in your ears as you step outside, blinking in the bright sunlight. An odd, prickly emotion builds in your chest as you ruminate, because you know the Mandalorian has the capacity for compassion. His care and love for the child alone are evidence of that, but you wonder where you fall on that scale. You are both a boon as the child’s caretaker and a liability as an extra item on his list to be concerned about. This entire fiasco won’t endear you, and you’re upset with yourself all over again. The confusing feelings sliding back and forth like an uneven scale cause your head to hurt, and the bright sunlight of Tatooine hardly does you any favors.

It takes stopping and asking a pedestrian where the hangar is located before you can make your way to it, and when you enter through the same door the Mandalorian had shouldered you through, the mechanic pops up from being seated at a small table surrounded by her pit droids. 

You come to a stop, your heart dropping on the sandy ground when you see the child in her arms.

“He, uh, found some work. Said he’d be back,” the woman says, bouncing the child, but by the fussy noises he’s making, you know she’s been unsuccessful wooing him to sleep. “The Mandalorian, I mean.”

Your eyes trail to the dark shadow of the Razor Crest, unable to make anything out besides the black, blurry shape of it, before looking back at the child. 

“You two shouldn’t leave your baby alone. A little one like this needs someone to take care of him,” she went on with a disapproving huff, and it was all you could do to stay standing upright from seeing a stranger cradle the child. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t sit well with you.

“May I...please have him?” you ask, holding your arms out and stepping closer. You feel like demanding she give you the baby, a panic ready to bubble in your throat that’s been lying in wait since the dogfight between the Mandalorian and the starfighter. But you can’t bring yourself to it. Your natural inclination has always been pacific, polite, and you don’t like the idea of making enemies.

“Oh...oh sure,” she says, quickly putting the child in your arms. The baby curls into you instinctively, pressing his face near your collar and fluttering his ears in happiness at your familiar scent. You drop down into one of the seats between two of the pit droids, winded and exhausted. The healing sheath keeps you from slumping in any way, but it also prevents the discomfort you felt before from returning. You hug the baby close, laying your cheek against the small wrinkled brow, and close your eyes against the prickle of tears forming under your lashes as relief washes over you.

“I’m Peli, by the way,” the woman says, stepping back to her seat and sounding suddenly unsure.

“Thank you, Peli,” you murmur, smiling when the child grabs a lock of your hair like an object of security. You open your eyes, pale and sightless as they are, and try to meet her own. You are often told you are always just a little off from holding eye contact, but you still try. “I didn’t want to leave him alone, but-”

“Nah, I get it,” Peli says quickly. If you didn’t know better, she seemed uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. “You didn’t look so great before…” She pauses, leaning forward urgently. “He didn’t do that to you, did he?”

You can’t keep the laugh from bursting from your mouth, and it takes you physically putting your hand over your lips to stop yourself, on the edge of exhausted hysteria. “N-No,” you finally say, swallowing hard. “No, he would never.” 

The words hold more truth than you intended, and you’re surprised by them yourself.

“Well, good.” She sits back, satisfied with this answer if put off by your outburst. She cocks her head to the side and says, “Fed him a little while ago. You hungry? You look pale.”

“Oh, I’m alright now,” you say, brushing your fingers over the child’s forehead. “Thank you.”

The truth was, you were spent. If you could lay down, in that moment, you knew you wouldn’t wake up for hours, but the time spent away from the child had unsettled you. Knowing he was alone, and then returning to find a stranger holding him sent a bolt through you that wouldn’t easily be shaken. Even if Peli was a good person, it leaves you feeling discomfited, and you aren’t sure that sensation would go away until the Mandalorian returns. Being at the mercy of others never felt good, but it was all you’d ever known. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like to feel secure no matter where you are. You think the Mandalorian must know what that feels like.

You were also starved for interaction. As Peli went on to say you should at least try to drink some tea, snapping at one of the pit droids to fetch it, you realize that even if she just simply spoke to you, the presence of someone else felt nice, at least for a while. 

“You’re very kind,” you murmur, letting the child sit properly in your lap as you pick up the clay cup with a warm, floral note in the steam. You take careful sips, the soothing sensation relaxing your shoulders.

Peli hesitates. “Started working on your ship. Fixed the fuel leak, at least, but it’s got plenty more fixing to do.” You nod, listening attentively as you continue to sip. “I’m guessing he’s good for the money, since he’s got a couple mouths to feed.”

You set the cup down and nod. “He is. Where did he go? Did he say where he found work?”

“Well, he set off on a speeder bike with some young kid. Probably your age. They were making their way out towards the Dune Sea,” she pauses here, rubbing her chin. “He told me to tell you not to wait up.”

A smile curves your lips, thinking of the last time you’d tried and failed to wait up for him. Then, a small thought that he could be gone overnight occurs to you, and you frown, rubbing your arm.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“What’s someone like you doing with someone like him?” 

The question is not what you were expecting, and the surprise must show on your face. You rest your hands on either side of the baby, furrowing your brow. “I’m...sorry?”

“I mean-” Peli’s frowning, now, you can hear it. She slaps her hands on her knees. “Bounty hunters aren’t really known for being friendly. When you two stepped off that ship, I thought he’d kidnapped you. You seem like such a nice girl.”

Your response is immediate. “And he’s a nice man.”

“You sure about that?” Peli challenges, and your hackles go up. Your social capacity is quickly filling as your energy wanes, and you wish once again that you hadn’t gotten hurt in such a stupid way. It isn’t as if you ran for miles or got stabbed. Maker, you fell over. “Look, I didn’t mean to step on your toes,” she says when you’re silent for too long. “I’m just...surprised, is all.”

“I was a slave,” you say quietly, feeling your heart quicken to utter the words out loud. You had gone for so long without saying it that it felt like a sacrilege. “To a man on a planet closer to the rim. Before that, I was an indentured servant to an Imperial family, and-” You stop, feeling a tiny three fingered hand rest on your wrist. You look down to find the child staring up at you, his small mouth pursed in worry. You smile at him, lifting your other fingers to trace his ear. “-and the Mandalorian freed me, when he could have walked away. I don’t know why he did it, but it is the first kindness I have known in a long time.”

“That’s a fine thing to do,” Peli allows, her voice shrewd. “And you’ve never asked him why he did it?” 

“I assume he needed someone to take care of this sweet thing,” you say, tracing the shape of the baby’s ear and smiling wider when he sighs against your hand. “That’s what has made the most sense to me.”

“Well, you seem to be doing right by the little one. Just don’t let that bucket head leave him alone anymore,” Peli adds, standing up and stretching her back. You smile good naturedly and nod, standing up yourself. 

“I think I’m going to rest. If he comes back, will...will you tell him that I’d like to see him?”

Peli pauses, hesitating at your turn of phrase.

You snort and wave your hand. “You know what I mean,” you say, walking off towards the Razor Crest.

“Right! Sure!” she calls, sounding anything but.

You climb aboard the ship, managing to make it up the ladder and shuffle into the cockpit with the baby in your arms. It takes you longer than normal to get him to relax, even once you’ve tried to tuck him in. Perhaps he’s still keyed up from all the excitement of the day, from meeting new people? You sigh, kneeling by the co-pilot chair that holds his cradle, and you begin stroking his ear. When his movements slow, a little smile curves your lips, and you start to hum. It isn’t any particular song-you don’t know many-but the combination of gentle touches and a soothing voice has his big, blinking eyes slowly drooping. Soon, the only sound in the cockpit is the soft snores coming from his tiny nose and mouth, and you step out into the passageway once you’re sure he won’t wake up.

The pain in your side has all but disappeared, only a faint tugging sensation when you move too quickly. You consider going back down into the hull to sleep in the bunk, but the thin padding of the cot providing no support doesn’t inspire your enthusiasm. Perhaps you could use your next bit of earnings to invest in better sleeping arrangements.

An idea strikes you, then, remembering when the Mandalorian crossed into the room across from the cockpit to dig out the cloak you’d borrowed on Quanera. Perhaps you can find something else to pad the cot with.

It takes you a few moments to find the door’s access panel, but when you open it and step inside, you’re hit with icy air. It’s completely dark, and you frown gently as you walk forward. The room itself is small, which is unsurprising for such a ship as the Razor Crest, but what does surprise you is when your legs bump into a short ledge. You nearly fall face first forward and catch yourself with your hands, landing on something...very soft.

A bed.

A  _ real _ bed.

The sheets are tucked in military fashion without a wrinkle, a thick woolen blanket folded at the end. There’s one pillow, plump and firm, without any indentation. You realize you’re in the Mandalorian’s quarters and shoot up straight, biting your lip. 

Considering your own bunk, you trail your fingers over the soft sheets and sigh with longing.

You shouldn’t. You should really sleep in your own bed where he told you to stay on your first day aboard-or even moreso, in the cockpit with the child. Even though the air is frigid in this room, you have the sterile heating cloths and the softness beneath your fingers is more tempting to your body than any sin you could have committed.

_ Mesh’la _ , he called you, and you don’t know what it means, but the memory makes your heart ache. It’s a decision in itself.

It takes only a small bit of fumbling with your dress to pull it over your head, and you lay it across the foot of the bed, slipping your boots off quickly after. You’re left in a thin tunic and your underclothes, the healing sheath still hugging you around your middle. By the time you climb beneath the sheets and pull the blanket around you, the cold air has chilled you through, but the heating cloths on your back and side warm you up. You sigh in relief, allowing your body to sink into the cushioned mattress, and your head falls back onto the pillow. You’ve left the door open for a bit of light, and to make it easier for the child to find you, but it doesn’t truly chase away the scent lingering under your nose.

Forest and skin and soap, you think, having smelled it so many times passing by his beskar. It’s faint, though, and you wonder when the last time it was he allowed himself this bit of comfort. The room felt uninhabited. You knew for a fact he often slept in the pilot’s chair, near the child, and as your eyes begin to fall shut, you promise yourself to make sure he sleeps in it from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mesh'la - Mando'a for "beautiful"
> 
> Raise your hand if you're in the Peli Motto fan club!
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone reading and leaving feedback. This chapter was originally twice the size, but I decided to split it in half, so the next part will be coming in the next couple of days.


	3. Business or Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the child is threatened and the Mandalorian is gone, you have to make a choice.

You wake up to tiny hands gently patting your eyes.

“Oh, good morning,” you mumble, smiling when the child huffs, as if he’s concentrating on something, laying his little hands more insistently against your eyelids. A laugh escapes you, and you take one of his hands and kiss it, blinking up at where he sits beside you on the bed. This is not the first time he’s woken you up, and it’s not the first time you’ve found him escaping his cradle. 

He stretches out his tiny hand once more towards your face, his features crinkling up with concentration, and you take a deep breath. “You must be hungry, aren’t you? Let’s get you something to eat.”

Your pain is gone, you realize, after you dress, and you dispose of the healing sheath and sterile heating cloths carefully. With a clear and rested mind, you wonder at a human physician having helped you rather than a droid. As you finish pulling on your boots, you decide to ask the Mandalorian later if he had stayed long enough to overhear anything about it after they’d admitted you.

There is a lone pitcher of bantha milk in the small cooling compartment, which you take out to fill a clay cup with. The baby happily kicks his tiny feet as he gulps, and you nibble a piece of herb crusted bread, listening to the sounds of tinkering and welding coming from outside the ship. You pick the child up when you’ve both finished your humble meal, burping him against your shoulder with a few pats and rubs to his back, and your mind drifts once more to the bounty hunter. Had he been gone all night? He’d never stayed away that long before now, you think, walking down the exit ramp of the Razor Crest and into the daylight. 

The hangar is dusty and dry as you remember, and you find the three pit droids sitting around a low table poking at spare bolts and tools. You set the child down on one of the stools before looking around.

“Peli?” you call, rubbing your arms and trying to make out your surroundings in the morning sun. It is almost too bright to distinguish anything, and you almost trip over a cord as you make your way towards the metallic sounds of tools coming from the other side of the Razor Crest.

“Morning!” The tinkering stops, and you can hear her sure foot falls approaching. You give her a smile, nodding hesitantly. In the bright of the morning, the previous day’s events slowly come back to you, and with them, a sense of unease. “Sleep well? Haven’t seen sight of that Mandalorian. Did he come back last night?”

Your face falls at this, and you grip your arms together across your chest. 

“Uh-I mean, I’m sure he’s fine. No rush, ‘cept for I’m charging him to hold this relic,” Peli says quickly, wiping her hands off on a rag from her pocket and gesturing to the ship over her shoulder. “You hungry?”

Clearing your throat, you shake your head quickly. “No, thank you.”

Peli steps around you, huffing. “Well, everything’s just about finished up here. Like I said, I repaired the fuel leak yesterday, and last night I got most of the carbon scoring off top. Did he tell you that the landing gear needs replacing?” She turns back to you at this point, and you shake your head helplessly, feeling uncomfortably out of your depth. She scoffs and stomps around the ship, and you follow meekly behind her, picking your way around cords, tubes, and tools. “Figures! Men don’t like fixing things until they’re already broken.”

“We’ve been a little busy,” you say gently, looking down as the child toddles up to your ankle and holds onto your dress’s hem sweetly. He stares up at you with large, inky dark eyes.

“Why he’d even choose this hunk-a-junk, I can’t even begin to guess,” Peli declares, sitting on one of the stools surrounding a low table. Her pit droids chitter and join her, but she waves a hand at one. “Let the lady sit, don’t be rude.”

The pit droid jumps up as if it’s nervous, quickly pulling the stool out for you so you can sit. You lift the child up into your lap, petting his head and noticing he’s suckling on the silver pendant he wears about his neck. You tilt your head towards the mechanic. “Is his ship very old?”

Peli’s laugh is loud, barking, and as direct as her personality. It makes you smile. “Old! Well, in terms of ships, wear and tear ages ‘em pretty quick, so yeah. I’d call it old. Surprised it still flies.”

“He’s a good pilot.”

“He’d have to be, to be able to get this rusted bucket off the ground,” Peli mutters, drinking deeply from a canteen. “The Empire used to use these gunships, if that tells you anything.” She pauses here as you take this information in, your eyes drifting back to the large shadow of the Razor Crest. “Wonder how he got it.”

You briefly imagine the Mandalorian, shadowed and gleaming at the same time, stalking the halls of the imperial estate you had served in. The thought of him cutting down stormtroopers brings a shiver through your shoulders, and you swallow hard, shifting and trying to ignore the sudden warmth and tightness in your belly. 

“H-He taught me to fly,” you say, breathless and turning back to the mechanic. If Peli notices the flush that reddens your cheeks, she says nothing about it. “Or...well, he taught me to take off and how to land.”

“Ha!” Peli slaps her knee. “Good for you, little lady. He should teach you more of that. I’ve always said it’s good to know how to plan an exit strategy, if you get my meaning, and knowing how to fly is the best one. He teach you basic maintenance, too?”

“Well, no-”

“Of course he didn’t,” Peli rolls her eyes, delighted to find something to nag the Mandalorian about further. “Well come on. I can show you, and I bet I’ll teach you more than he can!”

Your heart quickens in excitement, and you carry the child with you as you follow Peli to the engines. She shows you different tools required to patch and fuse leaks and tears, soldering irons that are best for finer tuning machinery, and the differences between the wires that connect the landing gear to the controls. 

“This way, if he’s not around and something goes wrong, you’ll know what to do. Know where he keeps his tools?” she asks, her voice stern. You nod quickly, telling her of the small compartment in the cockpit you’d seen him open so many times before. She’s satisfied with this, and lets you explore her own toolbox. She answers your questions, not with all the attuned patience of the Mandalorian, but when the child crawls into her lap for her attention, she’s sufficiently buttered up for a while longer.

The sun begins to sink in the sky when you close the toolbox, patting it respectfully. “Thank you. For this. For helping us,” you say, pausing with a thoughtful frown. “I mean-I know we’re going to pay you, but-”

“It’s alright,” she says, standing and bouncing the child in her arms. You can’t make out her face, but you notice her shoulders release, dropping an inch. “Better you than some of the other womp rats that come through here.”

You grin, following her as best you can in the fading light. “Speaking of womp rats,” you say, tickling behind the child’s ear. He squeaks in joy, blinking up at you with a toothy grin. “I should feed this one and lay him down. May I fix you something?” you ask, taking the child when she passes him to you.

“Think I might go to the cantina for a drink,” Peli says, watching you both as the little one grabs up a lock of your hair to hold in his tiny fist. She almost sounds nervous in the face of your gratitude, and you do her the courtesy of looking at the child instead. “Maybe that Mandalorian will be here with my money by the time I get back.”

The whole afternoon spent learning from Peli was a successful distraction from your current situation, but now as you listen to her fading footsteps, you begin to feel an uncommon amount of anxiety squeezing your stomach. Biting your lip, you make your way up the ramp of the Razor Crest, taking your time finding a small amount of cured meat from the cooling compartment for the child’s dinner. You sit with him on the floor of the hull, only realizing after a few minutes your lips begin to burn from biting them so much out of nerves. 

You never worry over your employer’s quarries. In the few times you were part of his comings and goings, they happen so fast you hardly notice his absence. Maybe a few hours at most is what it takes for him to hunt. The majority of the time that’s usually spent is flying to whatever planet they’re hiding on. He is ruthlessly efficient that way, and a not insignificant part of you feels admiration for that quality. There was pride in having a skill, a talent, and being the best for it.

Soft footsteps perk you up, and you walk towards the ramp only to stop when an unfamiliar voice says, “Oh, now _this_ is one way to hunt.” Unable to see in the dim light, you draw yourself up as tall as you can, folding your hands together at the approaching saunter that rings against the metallic ramp. “If I were a betting kind of guy,” the newcomer says, voice dripping with self-assurance. “I’d say this ship isn’t yours.” 

“N-No, but-”

“Pretty good set-up, though,” the younger man says, bypassing you completely to walk into the hull. A flush runs through your whole body, and you turn, following the sound of his voice and footsteps. He’s laughing, “Not one, but two carbonite freezers? Ah, Mando.” 

“I’m sorry but-but who are you?” You hate how your voice shakes with indignation, and you hate how you can’t see the child. His little plate is empty and abandoned on the ground, and you swallow hard. “I don’t...I don’t think you’re allowed to be here,” you add, uncertainty making you falter when he turns towards you.

“Oh, I’m a friend of Mando’s. Name’s Toro Calican. I’m with the Guild.” You hear a shift in fabric, and you blink curiously, tilting your head. You suppose it should mean something to you, his name and status, but when you remain unfazed, he sighs. “And who are you? You’re not in binders, so I’m assuming you aren’t a quarry. Mando doesn’t strike me as the type to, uh, mix business and pleasure.”

Your cheeks warm an impossible amount, and you tilt your chin downward. “N-No, I’m not...I…”

“So that’s what you’re here for?” He takes one, two steps closer, and you take one back. “Pleasure?” He’s smiling at you-you can hear it-and it isn’t a nice smile. Your heart begins to pick up in pace, and you wish Peli was here. More so, you wish the Mandalorian was here. It hurts that such attention and treatment is made towards you and not others, and the bitterness you taste is like dirty money in your mouth.

“I think you need to leave,” you say, curling your fingers at your sides and breathing deep from your belly, trying with all of your might to muster your confidence. “I-”

“Oh, I’m leaving. I’m taking the ship with me, too. How do you feel about joining me?”

Your ears begin to ring, and you desperately wish you knew what to do. In the darkness of the hull, without knowing where the child was, you were afraid. Your instincts tell you this is no friend, no matter how much he tries to smile and laugh, and something deeper tells you he means harm, no matter what he says. The last bounty hunter that tried to board the Razor Crest had ended up dead, but now, you’re not so sure who will win out.

So, you play the only card you are left holding.

“The Mandalorian will be back soon, and I-I don’t think he’ll like it if he finds you here.” Your voice only barely shakes this time, but his answering laugh makes panic curdle your stomach.

“Fine,” he sighs once his laughter dies away. “Don’t say I didn’t try to reason with you.”

You feel his lunge before he grabs you, and his underestimation is in your favor. You slide beneath his arm along the corrugated metal floor and run towards the ladder, hitting the back corner of the wall in your haste. If you can get to the cockpit, you can lock yourself inside. You remember how to open the communications link, and perhaps you can send a message to the Mandalorian.

That’s what you hope for.

What actually happens is halfway up the ladder, a hand grabs the ends of your hair and rips you backward, and you shriek from the surprise, your balance wavering. You hit the floor of the hull hard. With a hand still in your hair, Toro Calican drags you up onto your knees, and you can feel him jerk this way and that, muttering under his breath. “Where is it? Where’s the kid?” he asks, shaking you by the tight hold he has on you.

“Some hunter you are,” you snap, eyes watering and teeth knocking together when he shakes you once more. Your hands instinctively fly up to grab at his wrist, sinking your nails hard enough into his skin to draw blood, and you relish his grunt of pain when he drops you. You scrabble forward on hands and knees, throwing your arms out in wide arcs to orient yourself, and when his boot hits you in the back, you fall flat with your cheek pressed to the cold metal.

And come nearly face to face with two large shadowy eyes blinking at you worriedly from behind a crate mere inches away.

The baby stares at you, tears forming like ink pools and his lip trembling, and it’s all you can do not to reach out for him. With your heart in your throat, you shake your head, blinking sweat from your eyes and trying to convey the importance to the little one to remain hidden. Toro Calican knocks your concentration away when he grabs your shoulder and flips you around, sprawling you on your back. You push yourself backward, hitting the crate and effectively putting yourself between the child and the bounty hunter. However, you freeze when the cold muzzle from his blaster pushes up beneath your chin.

“Look, try to be reasonable,” Calican speaks conversationally, kneeling over you like he might speak to some kind of pet. “I can see you’re not firing on all cylinders-” He taps your forehead twice with a finger. “-but if you just consider helping me, I might even give you some of the reward money.”

You say nothing, glaring up at the half shadowed shape of him. Tilting your chin, silently defiant, it digs the muzzle of the gun firmer against your skin, and he sighs in disappointment. 

Briefly, you think of how many guns you have faced down the barrel of in your life, and there is a fine line between peace and pandemonium that suspends you. Only two options remain, and it burns you that it is left up to a man too small in character to understand the consequences of his actions. You want to tell him he will fail, that he will never succeed, but the world has taught you otherwise, and you would spit if your mouth wasn’t so dry.

You hear the slight click of the gears when his finger puts pressure on the trigger, and for a small moment, you think of your father, whose face you can’t remember, hiding you under the bed when stormtroopers broke down the door and snuffed him out so quickly.

A harsh slicing sound cuts the air, and you blink your eyes open just as Calican’s hand is ripped upward, the gun firing into the air. The Mandalorian’s whipchord launcher arrests the younger bounty hunter’s aim, and he throws his entire armored body into jerking him backward.

The sound of your name, a bark mangled by the modulator, throws you back into motion. You roll to the side, slipping your hands behind the crate and finding the child eagerly reaching for you, whimpering as you struggle to your feet and stumble towards the bunk.

Calican throws his free fist toward the Mandalorian, and it lands hard in his unprotected side, bringing him to his knees. Pressing yourself up against the wall, you realize you stand near the weapon’s locker, remembering the feeling of the warmed steel in your hands. It only takes a moment for you to put the baby in the bunk and slam the door shut, your heart cracking when he whimpers in fear, and you hit the console button that opens the locker. 

Maker only knows if any of these are loaded, and you certainly don’t know how to work the weapons themselves. That doesn’t stop you from grabbing the familiar shape of the handgun and holding it between shaking hands, eye level, just as Calican slams his knee into the Mandalorian’s back, throwing him onto the floor of the hull.

“Stop!” Your voice echoes off the metal walls, and it’s as rigid as the grooves of metal of the ship’s floor. You can see him turn towards you, and you feel more the hunted than the hunter, even with the weapon you’re holding.

He laughs at your shaking hands, your trembling lip, and disheveled hair. You look every inch a no-name forgotten girl from the outer rim, and you know it. This is his first mistake, to take you at face value. Because even though you are those things, you’ve made your life by the decisions of men who underestimate you.

So, you pull the trigger.

The sound of the body hitting the hull is softer than you expected, and the adrenaline surging through your veins makes it that much harder to hear. Your arms shake from holding the gun which sizzles at the muzzle, and you don’t even realize the Mandalorian has risen to his feet. He’s saying your name, saying it like he never has before, and you blink the pearls of salt from your eyes, turning your face toward him.

“...it’s alright. Give me the gun.” 

The gentle, deep baritone knocks your knees together, and you mean to drop the weapon. Instead, you buckle, and he only needs to take a step to catch you, shouldering you up with ease. His arms are secure and firm, circling around your middle and cradling you against the beskar chest plate. You can feel the blaster in his right hand that he’s taken from you, pressed flat against your back, and his other hand cups the back of your head. You don’t realize how violently you’re shaking, and he holds you against his armor so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself.

You’re not sure how long you’re there, floating in the shock of not just discharging a weapon, but also hitting the target. The pained groan that comes from behind the Mandalorian brings you back to the present. A deep breath squeezes from your lungs, and your fingers curl into the shadowy fabric beneath his pauldrons. You can feel his muscles tense, angling you away.

Slowly, with all the care of someone handling an injured bird, the Mandalorian eases you down onto the floor to lean against the wall. You’re only vaguely aware of his gloves pressing your tangled hair back from your face, the soft leather smearing your briny tears against your cheeks. He holds himself there, knelt beside you like a statue, and then his warmth is gone. You hear the snap of his cape as he turns and strides to the wounded man groaning on the floor.

Bringing your hands to your face, you breathe into your palms. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t feel real, and you don’t know if the soft vibration that fills the air is real either, until you hear the muffled sound of a puncture. All the blood drains from your face at the unmistakable noise of a blade being pushed through skin. The choked, wet sputtering only lasts a moment, but you still turn your face away, shutting your eyes. You listen as the Mandalorian drags the dead man off the Razor Crest.

The exit ramp closes behind him when he returns, and you feel like you can breathe again. He kneels down in front of you once more, not as close this time, but the gleaming tilt of his helmet makes it easy to decipher him in the shadows of the hull. His shoulders are tense, back straight, a hunter still primed to strike if necessary, and it feels such a relief to see him again.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you whisper, loose tears falling from your eyes, drawing your arms up around yourself. All the panic and uncertainty from before seems to fill you completely, and your chest rises and falls faster with the guilt that this is all your fault. “I didn’t-he wouldn’t leave, and the baby hid. I didn’t know, I didn’t-”

It’s all you can do not to break down, but when two leather gloved hands gather both of yours between them, it holds you together. “ _Cyare_ ,” the Mandalorian murmurs, now too quiet for the modulator to distinguish. It’s a breath that slips from beneath the lip of his helmet, and you drink it in like a breath of air. “You did well.” You take another breath, shaking your head slowly as more tears fall. “You did,” the Mandalorian insists, resting both knees against the hull’s floor to be closer. “You did well.”

Your head bows forward, unable to look at him even as he continues to keep your hands between his own. You want to tell him the child could have been hurt, that he could have been killed, and you would have been alone again. It would have been all your fault, all of it, but you don’t have the strength. So instead, you close your eyes, and you only remember to breathe again when you feel the crown of his helmet rest against your brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a
> 
> Cyare - beloved, loved
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading and commenting! I hope you're all enjoying it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Mando’a Translations:
> 
> Ori’skraan - a delicacy, a real treat in terms of food
> 
> Epar - eat
> 
> Verd’ika - “little soldier” 
> 
> Duraani, burc'ya? - You looking funny at me, pal?
> 
> Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad - an adoption vow, literally translated “I know your name as my child.”
> 
> Mesh’la - beautiful
> 
> My close friend actually suffered a similar injury that the reader has taken in this chapter. We had no idea anything was seriously wrong until she went to the doctor, and it was all from sleeping on her earring. Some of the most painful things can come from seemingly small incidents!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting on this story as it develops!


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